


Do not go gentle into that good night

by HouseofLegion (GoldenBloodyTears)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: 1990s, A comedy of errors, Black Comedy, Experimental Style, Gen, Gutting, Murder, Pre-entity, Unnamed victim - Freeform, male on female violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenBloodyTears/pseuds/HouseofLegion
Summary: Danny goes to the house of his newest victim. The night does not go as planned.Broken Formatting has been fixed!





	Do not go gentle into that good night

The house is silent in the night. Danny glides swiftly over the floor, making neither a creak or groan from the wooden floorboards beneath him. 

_This needs to be perfect._

He has it planned out. 

He wore his best cologne. 

And yet, his “date” is quite _ late. _

She shouldn’t be. He has her schedule memorized—Wednesday nights she is home by 9 PM. Always. Like clockwork. It’s something he loves about her. 

It’s close to 11 PM.

He could leave—there’s others on his list, he could go with a backup. There’s lots of possibilities. Always a plan. Always a backup move. But god, if he doesn’t feel just a little bit piqued that his plans for the night have gone to—

The living room is suddenly ablaze with the lights of a car pulling into the driveway. Danny moves to the door—if it’s not her, he needs to leave. Pronto. 

He gazes out of one of the small gaps in the blinds, breathing heavily against the mask that covers his face. The car in the driveway is small and red, practically square with age.

_It’s her._

He grins.

He watches as she exits the car, turning to lock it behind her. He backs away from the door, stepping into the darkness of the closet under the stairs. He’s noticed that the closet is bare of coats, which means it’s the safest place for him to hide currently. 

The front door opens, closing once more with the secure clunk of the lock. Her heels click across the wooden floor, stopping in front of his hiding place. 

He watches through the crack in the closet door as she kicks off her heels and bends over to tuck her shoes onto the rack against the wall. She stands, stretching twice before continuing down the hallway to the soft sound of her bare feet against the wooden floor. 

He waits, counting the seconds. One, two, three, _ five _—before slipping from the closet and creeping down the hallway after her. 

She stands in the kitchen, the only light in the room coming from the overhead above the stove. He watches idly from the doorway as she washes the dishes in her sink—oblivious and humming away to what sounds like an off-key Ode to Joy. 

He pulls his tactical knife from its leather sheath slowly. Takes a step into the room, followed by another. 

As if sensing his presence, she finally turns—dropping the wet plate in her hands when she sees him. It hits the tile at her feet with a loud crash.

“Who—” her demand catches in her throat as she looks at his knife, “What do you want?” 

Danny doesn’t answer, merely tilts his head. 

“Money? You want money?” 

She grabs her purse from the counter, holding it out between them like a shield. 

He can’t help but grin, letting out a warm exhale against his mask. 

“If it’s money you want, I’ll… I’ll give you it without a fight…” 

He shakes his head, enjoying the way her expression changes, collapsing in on itself. He steps closer—plate shards crunching under his boots—as she backs up into the counter. 

He lunges and she ducks, landing in the ceramic shards with a sharp hiss. He rights himself quickly, grabbing her by the hair before she can crawl away on her knees. 

“I’ll do whatever you want!” she cries, “Just don’t hurt me!” 

Danny crouches, his right hand still nestled tightly in her hair. 

“Anything?” He breathes, muffled by the mask. Her eyes widen—did she identify his voice? 

“I’ll do… I’ll do anything,” she repeats, stiffening as he brings the knife to her cheek.

He drags the blade down slowly. Gently. 

“Sex?” She offers, voice cracking. 

Danny pulls the knife away, tapping it against the chin of his mask. He lets go of her hair, watching her response.

She seems to relax—not relax but… her expression… He struggles to think of the word. Determined, perhaps? 

Is she planning like he is? 

He grins— 

Something collides with the side of his head and he’s sent sideways, dropping his knife from the impact. He shakes his head with a low growl—should have gotten rid of her purse. 

Danny looks up to find she’s already crawled across the kitchen and gotten to her feet to limp down the hallway. He grabs his knife and stands, racing after her. 

At the end of the hallway, she struggles with the lock on the front door—he quickly closes the gap. She shrieks as he lunges forward—narrowly missing as she dodges and his knife slams into the doorframe instead. 

He can hear her stumble up the stairs as he rips his knife from the wooden frame, cursing wildly under his breath. _ This night is not going as planned. _ He stalks up the stairs—two steps at a time—grabbing her arm tightly on the last step. She twists in his grasp, other arm swinging to strike. He ducks, throwing his weight against hers—they fall onto the landing with a loud thud. 

She gasps in pained, winded breaths as she struggles against him. Danny holds tight, making sure to press his weight as he shifts to straddle her hips. 

She breaks out into choked sobs as he goes for his—his knife! Where is it?

_ He dropped it during the fall. _

Danny sighs in annoyance, reaching for his second knife that he keeps on his thigh. 

“I had this all planned out,” he muses as he brings the blade down to hover over her chest, “It was—” 

“Why are you doing thisss?” She hisses, interrupting him.

Danny exhales, bringing the knife to her chin. He presses the flat edge of the blade to her skin—it grabs her attention, because she stares directly at him through the mask.

He could easily plunge the knife into her throat—straight through her trachea, moving the blade so he cuts her carotid artery and can watch as the blood gushes. 

“It’s rude to interrupt, you know,” he says instead. 

He brings the knife back down, pressing the tip to bare skin through the collar of her blouse. 

“I was going to tell you, but maybe now I won’t…” 

She inhales sharply as he drags the knife through her skin—

He hisses in surprise as a sudden pain cuts through his upper left arm. He processes the situation quickly—his missing knife!—and she smiles—she _ fucking smiles _—right before she swipes again and he has no choice but to roll off of her to dodge. 

The moment he does, she rolls in the opposite direction, stands and runs into the closest room. The door slams.

Danny looks at his arm. The cut itself is shallow, will only need to be cleaned and bandaged—but his sleeve is clearly ripped, and he’ll need to go through the process of _ sewing _ it closed. 

This is his favourite outfit—and it’s made of _ leather. _

“You bitch!” he snarls, jumping to his feet.

He rounds on the door, jiggling the handle. It’s locked. 

“If you come out now, I’ll make this quick!” Danny yells, throwing his fist against the door. She screams from inside. 

“I called the police!” she shrieks through the door, “You better leave or they’ll take your sorry ass to jail!” 

Danny pauses with his hand still on the doorknob. He turns, looking towards the dresser next to him—the base to a wireless phone sits on top, it’s cradle empty. 

_ Finally. Something gone right. _

He holds back a laugh as he takes a step back and in a swift movement, kicks the door open by planting his foot next to the knob. She screams—the phone receiver colliding with the wall next to his head. 

“Even if I hadn’t already cut the phone wire, I think I’d still have enough time to cut you open before the cops arrived!” 

She’s tucked into the corner behind the toilet. When he comes close, she tries to kick him—he’s expecting it and grabs her foot. She shrieks as he pulls her out on her back, hands grasping wildly at anything that could keep her from being pulled further away—the floor, the toilet, the flimsy metal shelf that comes crashing down the moment she pulls on it. 

Danny grins when he spots the knife sitting on the edge of the sink. 

“Maybe next time don’t put the knife down to make a phone call,” he taunts as he climbs back on top of her. 

“You’re a bastard!” she spits, “They’ll catch you! They’ll fucking catch you!”

Danny dodges a swing, grabbing her wrist with his right hand. 

“You’ll rot in prison! You’ll—”

He shoves his knife through her abdomen, up under her rib cage. She chokes, eyes wide. 

“What were you saying?” Danny sneers, twisting the knife as she shrieks, jerking beneath him. 

“I—” she coughs, “I hope you like electrocution. Old Sparky loves freaks like you.” 

She grins. There’s blood on her teeth. 

Danny slides the knife back out, only to shove it deep into her stomach. She opens her mouth to scream, but only manages a gasp as he lets go of her wrist, settling his right hand into the hair at the base of her forehead. 

“I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon,” he says in a low voice, “I’ve got too many _ stories _ to tell.” 

She grabs his left arm, digging her nails into his cut—Danny hisses, twisting the knife. She pales but doesn’t release her grip. 

Danny rips his fingers from her hair, grabbing at her arm as he tries to pull her hand away. 

“Let go!” He growls. 

She’s quick—even while injured—and with one hand on his knife and the other gripping her arm, Danny is unable to stop her when she reaches up with her left hand and rips the mask from his face. 

“You’re that—” she cuts off as Danny withdraws the knife to stab her again in the stomach. 

A weak laugh bubbles up between her lips along with the blood.

“You interviewed me… about the murders!”

Danny inhales through his nose as she starts to laugh hysterically. He grinds his teeth, fingers twitching on the handle of his knife as she spasms beneath him. 

She’s not supposed to be laughing. She should be _ screaming! _

He pulls his knife out of her stomach and letting go of her arm, shoves the fingers of his right hand into the newest wound. She goes white in shock, hands gripping his shoulders as she tries to push him off with a panicked wheeze.

“Still laughing?” Danny scowls, twisting his fingers to shove them in deeper.

“Stop! _ Stop! _ ” She shrieks and he can feel her legs hitting his back as she tries to kick her feet—to do _ something_ to get him off of her. 

He brings his knife back and slides the blade into the wound, being careful to avoid his fingers. He slices vertically towards her bellybutton—the pulse in his ears growing quicker and more oppressive the louder she screams. 

She grows quiet, and with a shuddered exhale, Danny looks back towards her face. It’s possible he’s killed her already—that her heart gave out—but no, she’s still breathing in shallow breaths. 

Did she pass out?

Danny slides his fingers from her stomach, bringing them to her face. He leaves streaks of red as he clears her bangs to see her eyes. 

They’re glassy—and she refuses to look at him. 

“You wouldn’t be the first person to cry at Death’s Door,” he says.

_ That _makes her look at him.

“Fuck you!” She spits blood into his face. 

Danny reels back as if the mix of saliva and blood burns. He wipes the sticky mess from his face, ripping his knife from her stomach with the other hand. He looks back at her face—and the fact that she looks almost disinterested—and snarls, slicing through the front of her throat that both arteries and her trachea are cut. 

Danny grins as she gurgles—but the rush of glee he feels is quickly ruined when she smiles at him with bloody teeth before closing her eyes. 

He stares. 

And stares.

And stares.

And finally, rips the knife from her throat before stabbing her again. In her chest. In her stomach. Again and again and again. Until bones snap. Until he’s heaving with every breath he takes. 

But she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t scream.

When he finally climbs off of her, Danny realizes that she made sure to give him the finger with each hand before dying. 

He sends his foot through the wall with anger.

But then, once he’s calm—once he’s finally collected—he makes sure to pose her differently to create a scene Roseville will remember for years. 

And only then, once she no longer looks like she died with the last laugh, does he take his photo to remember her by. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from a great poem by the poet Dylan Thomas. I used it because it felt appropriate, even if somewhat on the nose lol
> 
> I also want to thank all my friends, because without their encouragement, this probably would have never gotten posted.
> 
> And last, if you liked it and have spoons to share, please consider commenting! I would love to hear what people think!


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